


playing the sunset

by Setkia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone Has A Colour Except Soul, F/M, Maka Sees Sound As Colour, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15382017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: "You can see it, can't you? The colour of his music?"





	playing the sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from The Phantom Tollbooth, one of my favourite books, whose author also had synthesia. When Maka hears sounds, she also sees colours, which is a type of sensory phenomenon where the senses get crossed. I don't have synthesia, so obviously, you can't call this a realistic representation, but I'm quite proud of the way I wrote it.

 

When Maka is six, her parents take her to see a symphony.

It's a mixture of browns and blues and greens and violets and it's disgusting.

She leaves crying.

It doesn't get better.

Pop is too bright and nauseating. Country has weird yellows and browns and some greens that just don't mix well. Rock is loud and dark. Techno is slightly better, but the greys and whites are stiff.

Maka gives up on music.

  
When Maka is eleven, she sees the shadows for the first time.

She follows the dark figures and enters a room with a grand piano, behind which a boy sits, his eyes closed.

It doesn't have the forcefulness of rock or the rigidness of techno. There's no sign of uneasy sway that comes with country, or the hyper-activeness of pop.

The shadows on the wall move like graceful puppets, coming to life telling stories and tales and it feels as though the music is speaking to her. Despite the darkness the shadows are enveloped in, she doesn't feel scared.

She feels protected.

"What is that?" she asks.

The boy's eyes open. The shadows recede.

"Who are you?"

He speaks fast. She can't quite catch his colour.

"I asked you a question first."

"It's jazz. Now, who are you?"

Why can't she see his colour?

"You're …" she doesn't want to say empty. That sounds mean. So instead she says "different."

He scoffs.

It's weird. Most boys have dark or obnoxious colours. Papa has a voice of yellow and it always makes her feel sick. Black*Star has a voice of orange and it hurts her eyes but he's nice enough.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I'm here for the Meister/Weapon convention."

"So what, you're like a deathly toothpick?"

"I'm a Meister."

The boy's eyes widen.

"You?"

"Not telling."

"That's stupid. I told you."

"Well, I'm not telling."

"You're stupid."

"Oi!"

"Are you lost?”

“I’m not lost,” he scoffs. “I just don’t want some stupid Meister who thinks they can control me.”

Maka grins.

The boy frowns.

"So, you're a weapon."

"Forget I said that."

"Nope," sings Maka.

It's nice, that he doesn't have a colour. He’s less distracting that way. People are always complaining that she won’t meet their eyes whenever they talk, but it’s hard to ignore the hues that spew from their mouths. She can’t focus on both their voice and colour at once. Besides, more often than not the colours speak louder than what they say and the pigments are _always_ more interesting.

"So you need a Meister?"

"You wouldn't be able to handle me."

“I never said I was offering.”

She can finally focus on the person behind the colour and the person she’s looking at is a strange one. He has white hair and red eyes and pale skin. When he opens his mouth she can see something sharp gleam underneath the lights. Are people always this strange? In a way, it feels like this is the first time Maka’s ever seen one.

"Tch," the boy huffs, turning back to the ivory keys. “If you're done now, leave me alone.”

"Maybe I will," Maka says. " _Or_ I'll tell Death that you're trespassing."

She _needs_ to know the boy's colour.

"Death? As in, Lord Death?" the boy asks, his fingers stopping just short of playing again. Maka wishes she hadn't spoken. She rather likes the type of music he plays.

"Yup. _But_ if you show me your weapon form …" she trails off, he can guess the rest.

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"Mayyyyyyyyyybe …"

The boy makes a great act out of looking behind him and glancing both ways before his voice drops low and he whispers "Are you sure you can handle it?"

Maka grins. "Dazzle me."

The boy smirks. He has blades for teeth.

"Watch this."

He lifts his hand and then in a flash, it's a beautiful black and red blade, shiny and sharp. No colour accompanies the swoosh.

"Impressed?"

Maka shrugs. "Eh, I've seen better."

She's lying.

"I'm Maka," she introduces herself because she feels stupid having spoken to him for so long and never mentioning her name.

"Soul. Soul Eater."

  
Maka learns more and more about Soul.

He's from the wealthy Evans family, known for their musical talents.

He has an older brother named Wesley who plays the violin.

He is the only weapon in his family, with no proof of anyone in his lineage having Meister or weapon genes.

He was trained in classical music, but he prefers jazz.

He has a liking for video games and thinks reading is boring.

Maka still does not know what his colour is.

It irritates her.

Sometimes she stares at him when she hopes he isn't looking, trying to see if she's missed it because she has never met anyone without a colour before.

Soul thinks she's weird whenever she does it, but it doesn't stop her.

People have colours. It’s just a fact, the same way the sky is blue, so why doesn’t he?

Fighting, both against, and alongside each other, Maka thinks Soul's colour should have slipped, at least once. She can't understand how it's possible she still hasn't seen it because really. She knows people who try to conceal their colour, but it always slips out, the same way you can’t hide from your own shadow, no matter how much you try.

Even in the heat of battle, she can't tell what it is.

She knows she isn't imagining the colours, she's always seen them, but Soul Eater just seems to be someone without any hues to offer.

  
When they move in together, Maka learns a few things about Soul.

He’s a relatively decent cook.

He drools in his sleep and prefers to wear boxers to bed rather than actual pyjamas.

He’s careless when it comes to doing the laundry and has pink boxers to show for it.

He does not use gel to get his hair to stick up at the odd angles that it does.

He likes to have snacks at ungodly hours of the night and without fail, forgets about the creaky floorboard that gives away his position every time.

Maka still does not know what his colour is.

She sometimes likes to guess.

A part of her wants to say it's purple, to symbolize the deep loyalty he seems to have towards her (he thinks she doesn't see him turn down those other Meisters who want to fight with him, but she does).

Another part of her thinks it might be orange, like Black*Star, because he is kind of loud and can be obnoxious, but his presence isn't demanding enough, his voice isn’t a constant shout, and he can be calm when he needs to be.

She thinks maybe he's like Death the Kidd, with a black core, for the sturdiness he provides, and the stability that he comes with. His music has always been black, so maybe that’s what he is too. He has a demanding nature about him, and he’s got a temper, no matter how often he schools his features, but it’s not quite right.

On some days she thinks that he might be blue like Hiro, a load of anxiety and self-esteem issues hidden just below the surface, but Soul never seems to "lose his cool", as he likes to put it and she can't really say it feels right to call Soul blue.

Other days he’s more like Stein, a blazing gold, with the way he throws himself into things unthinkingly, the same way Stein has a drive for curiosity and knowledge, Soul throws himself on the ground, going all in whenever he gets passionate about something, but it just doesn't sit well with her.

Sometimes Soul can be mauve, or magenta, but he could also equally be turquoise or lime.

Soul's colour is still a mystery, and it's been three years and she just doesn't know what to think anymore.

  
"Are you Maka Albarn?"

The man blocking Maka's reading light looks like Soul, but when he talks, she's hit by a sudden wave of grey. His eyes twinkle and when he smiles, his teeth aren't sharp enough.

This must be Wesley.

"Yes," she says. "Do you have a visitor's pass?"

"Oh!" Wesley Evans pulls down the corner of his shirt to reveal a lanyard with the pass on it. "Here it is."

Maka thinks it's kind of funny that she's known Soul for years and yet this is the first time she's ever seen his brother. It was like pulling teeth to get him to mention his sibling at first, and every now and then he mentions him in passing.

His colour is exactly what Maka thought it would be.

"Why are you here?"

"Thought I'd check on my little bro," says Wesley. His colour is jubilant, jumpy. He's excited. She can’t blame him, Soul never visits.

"Soul's not here."

"I can see that."

Maka goes back to her book.

Wesley takes it away from her.

So he really _is_ an Evans.

"You see, during my search for my little brat of a brother, I kept hearing another name. Yours." He winks. "So before I see Soul, I was curious. How he's been?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Being an older brother is funny that way. You tease the little one for a while and eventually they stop wanting to talk to you," Wesley says. "So tell me. Has he caused any trouble?"

Maka stands up and grabs her book forcefully from the taller man. The Evans heir is surprised by the amount of force she has in her tiny body to pry the pages from his hands.

“Follow me."

She's not going to talk about Soul without him around. She doesn't know much about his family life, but Soul prefers to keep it private, and she's sure he has his reasons.

Maka doesn't know where Soul is. So she follows the shadows.

She stops outside the same room they first met in. There he is, sitting behind the piano, surrounded by the shadows that dance around the room, a beautiful choreography that feels so fluid and poignant, Maka loses her train of thought for a moment.

She hears a sharp intake of breath before she can put her hand on the knob.

"It's still the same chaos, then,” Wesley whispers.

"What is?"

"His music," the eldest Evans replies. "It's always been weird and chaotic, kinda out of sync, sort of … claustrophobic, don't you think? Not very comforting. I love him to pieces, but he composes some dark shit."

_SLAM!_

Wesley's whole body gives out under the weight of Maka's book, but to his credit, he stays fairly silent, stifling a laugh, even. He grins at her. "You can see it, can't you? The colour of his music?"

Maka's eyes widen.

"You …?"

"I see it too," Wesley says. "Always have. I like to think it's what helps me make such great compositions." He looks down at Maka. "You don't see it the way I do, do you?"

"I …"

"It's okay," he says, "you can tell me. What do you see when he plays?"

Maka stares into the room with the shadows and the dancing figures with no real shape and yet all the shape they need. “It's figures dancing, to a beat that controls them, almost like puppets, but it's graceful and … it feels warm. Comforting. I feel … safe, when I see his music," she whispers softly.

Wesley tilts his head. "Do you know your colour?"

It's hard to know your own colour. It’s your own, making it difficult to identify. She likes to think that, if she could speak to herself and see the colours that flow out, it’d be something nice to look at, but she has a feeling it’s green, with envy and rashness and so many other negative traits because she knows that colours only show the deepest parts of a person and Maka knows her core has many bad things in it.

She shakes her head.

"Want me to tell you?”

If she doesn’t know, she can’t be disappointed in herself. She knows that logically, she’ll find out eventually. She’ll meet someone else like Wesley, like her, who will tell her, the same way she told people when she didn’t know what it meant (they always gave her weird looks when she said they were pruce).

Wesley waits in silence.

Maka stares at the shadows as they dance around the room. Soul manages to make himself be heard, loud and clear, and seen like crystal to her. It’s why she stayed. The shadows lead her to him, but it’s _him_ that keeps her here, the one person she knows best because she saw _Soul_ first, not his colour. She’s swept away by him.

"I'd rather not know," Maka says quietly.

"Fair enough," says Wesley. He leans forward and she can feel his breath on her shoulder. She wants to push him away, doesn't like that he's so close, but she doesn't. "But Maka, before I go, I just want to tell you your colour is beautiful."

Maka's breath hitches.

Wesley goes to open the door—

“Wait.”

The violinist turns to her, an eyebrow raised. "Hmm?"

"Soul … what's his colour?"

Wesley frowns. "I'm afraid my brother doesn't seem to have one."

"He's always been like that?"

"Unless I'm missing something, yes," Wesley says and then he walks into the room and the music stops and the shadows recede and Maka watches explosions of grey interact with no colors at all.

  
Maka keeps in touch with Wes (he insists, he hates Wesley, thinks it's too formal). She refuses to tell him anything Soul won’t though and he respects her decision. Every time he speaks to her, he asks if his brother has developed a colour.

Every time, Maka says no.

She doesn't understand.

Everyone Maka has ever met has a colour.

Tsubaki is a lavender, full of sweetness and tranquility.

Liz is a clementine, a softer kind of orange that denotes her loud personality and her brashness, but also her ability to be gentle.

Patty is a shade of pink that can't quite be called by name but resonates with childlike wonder, energy, and curiosity.

Blair is an indigo that seems sensual and a little invasive, which is perfect for her.

Mama had been a calming blue, but Maka can barely remember much about her.

Everyone has a colour. Music, voices, sounds, anything that makes noise leaves a colour behind. People's colours are a bit trickier, because they encompass their personality, including the sides of them that they don't know about. Sometimes it takes her a while before she decides what she wants to name the hue they are.

Maka has known Soul for five years.

She has never seen his colour.

  
"Hey, can you pass the salt?"

"Get it yourself.”

Soul grabs her book from her. She growls, reaching for it, but he holds it above her reach, as he always does, making a comment about how she’s too short. She knows better than to jump for it, that’ll only provoke him more.

Instead, she grabs his arm and forces it behind his back, twisting it.

"Oi, Maka, that hurts!"

"Give me back my book," Maka says, pushing against his arm even harder.

"Don't break my arm off! What if I can't transform properly?" Soul demands. "It wouldn't be cool if the last Death Scythe ever were to break a week after being made!"

"Then give me my book!"

Soul lets it drop and spins around quickly, trapping Maka between the counter and himself. He chuckles. "You are _such_ a bookworm."

Over the years, his way of speaking to her has changed. He sounds less gruff, more teasing. It's obvious all his insults hold no water. It's been years since he last said something with the intention of making her hurt.

It's annoying, at times like these where she can be so easily swept up in him, the same way she gets carried away with his music, that she can't see his colour. Even just a glimpse could maybe tell her whether or not he feels the same way she does.

"Oh, don't pout," he teases with a grin.

"I'm not pouting."

"Sure, Pouty Face."

_Pouty Face?_

It's clear from the way he scrunches up his nose he realizes how lame the insult is.

"Do all cool guys trap girls in their own kitchens?"

"Only the cute girls."

Wait.

Soul's expression changes the moment he realizes what he's said.

Maybe Maka doesn't need Soul's colour to know whether or not he likes her.

Though his face _is_ turning an impressive shade of red.

  
He kisses her and then it's like the world is an explosion of colour.

One colour.

It seems so _obvious_ now, so clear to her, she can't believe she didn't even assume it was this. It's everywhere, it's all over him, his very essence is it, and it's beautiful.

He's fidgeting, he doesn't know why she's gone all quiet. He’s probably thinking something stupid like she doesn’t like him back, but he’d be wrong. Because now she can see his colour and it just confirms her thoughts that maybe she's been falling just a bit in love with him.

"Red."

He blinks.

"What?"

"You're red."

His ears turn pink. "Well, _sorry_ I'm being uncool—"

"No, I don't mean you're red, I mean you _are_ red," Maka says and she feels like laughing. It feels so _right_ this way, how could she not have realized it sooner? Green and blue and orange and yellow and gold and black could never suit him, not _her_ Soul Eater, because he is just so _red_.

"What are you talking about?" Soul asks and he's letting out a nervous chuckle she's never heard before.

"It's so obvious! I must've been blind not to see it before," she says, and this time she does laugh, tossing her head back, but when she finally meets his eyes, he looks upset, more red than before, a darker shade.

"Look, you don't have to laugh at me—"

"Oh no, I'm not, I'm laughing at myself," Maka says and she starts trying to explain, but it's clear that Soul doesn't have the slightest idea what she means when she talks about the shadows and his seemingly transparent colour before now, so she gets herself under control and breathes in deeply. "It's not important, I'll explain later."

"Right …" He looks uneasy.

"In the meantime, can you kiss me again?"

Soul's eyes dart to her, he's clearly in disbelief. He laughs and then he's kissing her again and everything is so _RED_.

  
It was everywhere and yet nowhere at the same time and she feels so stupid for not realizing it. Sometimes she tries to explain it to Soul, but he always gives her a confused look and she thinks she'll get better at explaining it some other time because right now, she's just basking in the glory that is him and all his redness.

No colour has ever fit anyone better.

Red is the way his eyes gleam when he gets an idea he knows will get him in trouble, but he’s so excited about it, he can’t put it to rest. It’s the way he knows it’ll end terribly but he’s so excited for the middle part, he doesn’t care.

Red is the way he moves in battle, passionately throwing himself wholeheartedly into the fray. It’s the way he accepts nothing but success, and if not, he’ll die trying, but he’ll spit in your face while you torture him, and if that’s what kills him, he’ll go with a smile knowing he’s never surrendered.

Red is his weird mixed parts that make him a short fuse on some days and strangely patient on others, and when smashed together in the right combination, it leads to his temper which can change on the dime, but is always less overwhelming when directed at her.

Red is the way he moves, whether he’s slouching or running or sleeping with his mouth half-open.

Red is the way he protects her with so much loyalty and fertility you’d think he was a lion about to attack its prey. It’s the colour of the blood that pumps through his veins and fills him with _life_ and it’s the passion that consumes him when you get him talking about certain composers and the fury when he’s losing to Black*Star at a video game that he’s spent hours practicing.

It’s the way he hums when it’s his turn to make dinner, the way he always has her feminine products when she forgets, the way he tucks her in when she falls asleep studying. It’s the colour of rage when someone asks her to partner up with them, it’s the fear he has when he thinks she’ll accept, and the shade of relief when she comes back home to him every time. It’s him knocking on her bedroom door even though he doesn’t have to, it’s him sitting on the roof with her, keeping her awake so they can watch the meteor shower, it’s him rolling his eyes when others ask to partner with him and the way he gives her rides on his motorcycle even though that isn’t very “cool”. 

Red is the colour of his love.

Red is _him_.

  
"You're so red," she says one day and he gives her a funny look.

"You keep saying that, what does it mean?"

Maka wants to tell him. She’s imagined telling him so many times and has tried so many ways in front of a mirror. She decides she's never going to find quite the right words, so she just goes for it.

"It's like … I see sound in colour," she starts slowly, glancing at Soul sideways to see if he has anything to say. He doesn't, he just watches her intently. "Whenever I hear something, I see a colour. Like when Sid talks, I see earthy browns, and when I hear someone slam a door, I see black, and it kind of lingers as long as the sound is there and if it echoes, it lasts longer. Does that make sense? I know it's a bit weird, but it doesn't really affect the way I fight so I didn't think it was that important. Everyone I know has a colour, every sound I've ever heard has a colour and—"

"And I'm red?",

"Yes," Maka says, folding her hands in her lap. She bites her lip and wonders if she should mention that when he plays she sees shadows dance. "You weren't always red though. At first you didn't really have a colour … I don't know why though, it's kind of complicated. I asked Wes. He says you never really had a colour before."

"You spoke to my brother about this?"

"Yeah …" Maka starts to play with a hole in her uniform. She should get it sewed up, but it serves as a nice distraction when she’s unsure what to do with her hands. "Is this weird? What am I talking about, of course it's weird, I uh—"

"Red, huh?"

"Yeah, red."

Soul grins. ”Red's pretty cool, isn't it?"

Maka laughs and pushes Soul in the shoulder. He lets himself fall back slightly before sitting up straight again. He wraps his arm around her and she feels warm and protected.

  
"Do you know what colour you are?" Soul asks one day.

Maka used to think it would change how he interacted with her, but instead, he seems more understanding. He gets why she doesn't like big crowds, and he likes to guess what other people’s colours are. He always asks if she’s ever seen someone with a colour as nice as his. She hasn’t.

Maka shakes her head.

"You know … whenever Wes would ask about you, he called you Firecracker. I thought it was about your temper, but …" He laces their fingers together and gives her a sideways glance. "He was talking about your colour, wasn't he?"

Maka stares at Soul, at the way the red seems to wrap around him and encircle him, the way it stands out so boldly. She was scared when the hues started to envelop him, she wouldn’t be able to see him anymore, wouldn’t be able to hear him or see him the same way. She’s right, in a way. He manages to be heard above the sound of the colours that dance around his body, and honestly, he’s beautiful this way, more fascinating and breathtaking that when the shadows first lead her to him.

_"I just want to tell you your colour is beautiful."_

“Maybe."


End file.
